Dead Men Walking
by soupsouffle
Summary: It's the zombie apocalypse, and Sam and Dean find themselves stuck south of the Mason-Dixon line leading a small band of survivors. Frequently AU.
1. Marching Through Georgia

Note: If you watch The Walking Dead, you'll notice I've borrowed some stuff from the show. If you don't, you'll never know the difference! :) Oh, and I'd love to know what you guys think, good or bad, short or long, so please review!

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><p>The rotting thing staggered through the underbrush, more pathetic than threatening. Dean tracked it with his eyes, wishing the last kill of the day was something a bit more challenging. This one had once been a young woman, probably one of the many students that had succumbed to the virus. Her pale hair was matted with blood and tissue, and not much was left of her lips and nose. Still, she was more intact than most of her peers.<p>

Her skin was the color of death, the veins tracing dark lines over the mottled flesh of her arms and face. The noises she made were spine-tingling - gasping groans and moans that were neither human nor animal, but something else entirely.

"This one's yours, Sam," he muttered to his brother. There would be nothing fun about taking this one down.

Sam nodded and raised his arm, leveling his shotgun at the Walker.

"Wait," said Dean. "It's getting dark, there's no point in attracting more of them. Here." He handed Sam the machete strapped to his back. "Quick and clean."

"Quick and clean. That's funny," replied Sam."You know I hate using this thing." But he accepted the weapon anyways, stepping out from the trees and advancing on the poor dead bastard.

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><p>At the noise, Emory flew back into a state of sheer panic. It was the third panic-worthy incident of the day, and she was beginning to welcome the feeling as an old friend. She held her long hunting knife cocked at her side in a white-knuckled grip. Not for the first time, she longed for a pistol. You had to get up close to fight with a knife. And close was not how Emory liked to get with these dead sons of bitches. Close meant infected blood flying everywhere. Too easy for some of that spatter to get in her eyes, nose, mouth.<p>

And holy hell, could those bastards get grabby. Better to be at a distance.

She made a slow circle, glaring into the forest that surrounded her. Terror played tricks on her eyes. Was something peeking out from between the pines?

She bit her lip hard, willing herself to think rationally. Walkers didn't peek. They lurched. Staggered. Trudged. And if they caught you, they ate you—no question about it. But they didn't _peek_.

The sound that had put her on alert came again, this time louder and longer. A soft moan. It didn't sound like a zombie. It sounded human.

"Hello?" Emory called, as loud as she dared. She waited, silent.

Then, "Who's there?" The voice was small, high. A child's voice.

"It's all right, you can come out. Are you all by yourself?"

A small, bedraggled girl crawled out of the underbrush, brambles in her dark hair and dirt on her scabby knees. She was skinny and pale, probably no older than five or six. She nodded in answer to Emory's question, then sniffled and rubbed at her nose with the back of a knobby wrist.

"Where are your parents? Did you get lost?" Emory noticed that the dirt on the girls face had been striped clean in places by tears. She hastily stowed her knife in its sheath, which she had jury-rigged to her belt with a carabiner. No need to spook the kid more than she already was.

The child shook her head. "Mom and Daddy are gone. I was with some folks, but they left me. We were running, and they just...left me."

If she had been thinking like a survivor, Emory would have ditched the kid too. A child would only slow her down, eat her food, and demand protection. Emory wasn't even sure if she could protect herself. But the end of the world hadn't screwed her so hard as to make her okay with leaving a little girl to fend for herself in a forest crawling with the dead.

"Come on. Let's get out of the woods before dark."

The little girl nodded and fell into step behind Emory. She looked tired and weak, and Emory knew she wouldn't make it very far.

"What's your name?" Emory asked, hoping a conversation would pump a little energy into the kid.

"Hazel Ann Harbird. What's yours?" The little voice was perky and sweet, belying the haggard appearance.

"I'm Emory."

The child nodded and scratched behind her ear.

"Hazel. Have you come across Walkers? You're not bitten anywhere, are you?"

"Nope, I haven't even seen a single one. I've stayed under those bushes, mostly. For two nights now. I did just what my mom always tells me, stay put until somebody finds you. I'm real hungry, do you have anything to eat?" Hazel babbled. It seemed that two days of silence had not agreed with her.

Without hesitating, Emory swung her backpack off her shoulders and opened it up, rummaging briefly before extracting a fistful of protein bars.

"This is all I've got. Raided a gas station when I first hit the road and loaded up. Let's see here...I've got peanut butter, chocolate, banana, wild berry—"

"Chocolate," said Hazel, swallowing hungrily. "And peanut butter."

Emory handed over the two bars along with her water bottle. The child seized the water first, gulping down half of it before tearing the wrapper from one of the bars and sinking her teeth into the dense, chewy sustenance.

Emory leaned against a tree while the little girl ate, wondering what the hell she was going to do now. There was nowhere to go. There was no help to be had. A woman and child alone had little chance of surviving for very long, no matter how good Emory got at offing these dead bastards. And she wasn't all that good at the moment. The only thing that had kept her alive so far was pure dumb luck. That and the fact that she had only encountered the dead in ones and twos. They were easy to kill on their own. But surrounded, she knew she would go down. Hard.

But better to die helping a kid than not. If she was going to die, might as well go the noble route.

"How old are you, Hazel?"

"Six and a half. I'll be seven in April."

Poor kid should have been adjusting to first grade, not hovering under bushes in the middle of the woods.

"Do you know where we are, Emory?"

Emory shrugged, looking to her left and right as if there was anything to see besides trees. "Somewhere between Winterville and East Athens. Near Lexington Road. I tried to hit the Wal-Mart for supplies, but somebody torched it."

"Torched the Wal-Mart? The whole Wal-Mart?"

"The whole thing, burned to the ground. Not sure what happened."

Hazel gave a deep sigh, ripping open the wrapper to her second bar. "You live around here?"

Emory nodded. "Used to. I had an apartment down the road, before everything went to hell. How about you, Hazel? Are you from Athens?"

"Over in Winder. We were trying to get to Atlanta," answered Hazel, looking suddenly grim. She went back to her meal and seemed unwilling to say more. Emory didn't push her.

Once Hazel had polished off the second bar, Emory was ready to get a move on. She shifted her backpack to the front, then squatted down by the girl and grinned encouragingly. "Hop up."

As any child would, Hazel knew just what to do. She looped her arms around Emory's neck while Emory's elbows came back to hook behind the child's legs and haul her up.

The little girl was light as air. Emory had a feeling that even before getting left, she hadn't been eating full meals.

Then again, neither had Emory. As light as the child was, Emory's stamina was flagging. She felt as if she had been walking for days. Hazel seemed to grow heavier with every step, and it was only the deepening gold of the sinking light that drove Emory onwards. If a Walker were to step into their path at this moment, it would be a grisly end for both her and Hazel.

It was not a Walker, however, that eventually disturbed the grim, silent determination with which Emory bore her charge.

Though fairly shaking with weariness, Emory was able to mark their proximity to the road which, she hoped, would lead them to some semblance of shelter for the night. She gently let Hazel down, knowing she would need the remainder of her strength to get them to safety. If only she could barricade them in someplace…

Before she could think further, however, an urgent sound pierced the tremulous twilight air.

"Freeze!"

The voice came from nowhere, forceful and gruff and hard as steel. The kind of voice you can feel in your bones. It was punctuated by the sinister sliding _crack-crack_ of a pump-action shotgun chambering a new round, and it didn't even occur to Emory to disobey. She grabbed Hazel by the arm, pulling the child behind her, though she couldn't say for sure where the shooter was.

"Please," she called softly into the trees. "We're not Walkers. We're totally helpless, in fact, but I'm sure you can see that for yourself."

There was a rustle off to her left, and Emory's eyes flew towards the sound. Out of the foliage came two ominous-looking sawed-off shotguns, carried by two ominous-looking men who seemed very comfortable with their weapons, even—or perhaps especially—with said weapons trained on an unarmed woman and child.

"I'm Emory, and this is Hazel. Hazel is _six_. Would you mind putting those damn things down?"

The taller of the two men had lowered his gun before she could even finish her sentence, the instant he had caught sight of the small person huddled behind Emory. But the other only let his sink an inch or so at her request. It was enough to reveal a pair of intense green eyes, totally devoid of anything close to pity or sympathy. It would take more than the appearance of helplessness to mollify this man.

"Sam," he growled, his voice menacing. This was the one who had called out first, Emory was certain.

The tall guy fished something out of his inner coat pocket. It was heavy and black—another gun, this one a scary-looking semi-automatic. To Emory's horror, he aimed it straight at her and, without hesitating, fired.


	2. Don't it Make You Wanna Go Home

For a moment, Emory felt totally disoriented. Adrenaline shot through her veins like ice, making her feel shivery and weak. Had she hallucinated it? But no. There was a round wet spot on the shoulder of her grimy white t-shirt.

"Is that a _squirt_ gun?" she croaked, stunned.

The men ignored her. "The kid too," insisted Tough Guy.

Emory heard Hazel give a little squeak as she received similar treatment from the disturbingly authentic-looking water gun. Only after this bizarre procedure did the first man lower his weapon.

The tall one gave a small smile and tried to explain. "Sorry if I scared you. It's just holy water. Policy. We had to devise a method that allowed us to test from afar."

"Test _what?_" asked Emory, too weary to truly care about the answer.

"Nothing. Never mind. We're crazy. So, who the fuck are you?" Tough Guy. He was good-looking, so naturally he was a cocky asshole.

"Zombie apocalypse or not, you'll watch your mouth around the kid. She's freaked out enough."

"Sorry. Who the _fudge_ are you?"

He wasn't remotely sorry. He was mocking her, and enjoying the hell out of himself.

"Emory Sadler. This is Hazel."

"She your kid?"

"I'm not her mother, if that's what you mean." Some strange instinct made Emory put a protective arm around Hazel. "But yeah, she's with me."

"Fair enough. I'm Dean." He threw a thumb back towards his taller companion. "That's my brother Sam."

"Enchanté," grumbled Emory.

Both men were clearly young and athletic—they would be neither outfought or outrun. Not to mention the fact that both were armed. Emory was willing to bet that they had more than just shotguns and water pistols on them.

"Are you two all on your own?" asked Sam, whom Emory was beginning to peg as the sympathetic one. If she ever had to beg for mercy, she'd be sure to go to Lurch over there.

"Yes. And fighting like hell to stay alive, so I'm sure you'll understand if I'm a little short with you for the gun shenanigans."

The brothers exchanged a brief, unreadable look, silently agreeing on something.

"Come with us. We have a safe place," Dean grunted after a pause.

Emory was wary. Of course she was wary. Even before all this zombie business she would have been nervous...getting cornered by two guys while alone in the forest could turn up several unhappy endings. Now that civilization was falling down around their ears, there was no end to the depravities that might be practiced upon the weak and helpless by the psychopaths who happened to not get eaten by all the hungry reanimated corpses walking around.

Then again, it also made a girl more desperate, made her long to trust whoever came forward offering help. With the shotguns down at their sides, these two didn't look like trouble. In fact, they looked like a pair of Calvin Klein underwear models, if a little rough around the edges. The man who'd introduced himself as Dean—the one she was most concerned about—gave her a crooked grin that made her want to pass him off as a loveable rogue and throw herself upon his mercy. It also sent a flare of awareness through her, awareness of how much power he and his brother had over her and Hazel, whether she agreed to follow them back to the safe place or not. It made her giddy with fear.

"We'll come. Not like we'd have a lot of choice if you decided to force us."

"Of course we won't force you," came the gentle voice of Sam, who had arranged his low brow into a perfect expression of kind concern. "It's totally up to you. But we want to help you. We've been helping lots of people in similar situations. We've got a facility set up with beds and running water and plenty of food."

"A facility."

"That's what the man said," answered Dean, clearly impatient to move things along. "Now, are you coming or what?

Emory knew she had no other choice. If they weren't forcing her, it probably meant they legitimately wanted to help her, and she needed help desperately. Saying no meant a long, weary trudge down the road, a journey that could easily end painful and bloody.

"We'll come," she repeated after a pause. She took Hazel's hand, receiving just as much strength from the small grip as she had meant to lend. "Lead the way."

It turned out that they weren't too far from the main highway, where a little black Prius was meekly awaiting them. It was dented in several places and covered with road dust, but Emory could hardly have cared less. A car meant no more walking. A heavy sigh of relief escaped her at the thought.

Dean groaned, seemingly at the sight of the car. "God, Baby, I miss you so bad," he muttered bitterly. "I'm in the middle of the zombie fucking apocalypse and I'm driving around in a goddamn vagina-mobile."

This time it was Sam who objected, giving his brother a sound whack on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Come on, man. The kid."

Dean threw up his hands in exasperation "What about the damn kid? Before the week is out she'll probably see more gore and guts than the Coliseum in its heyday. Quit treating her like she's made of glass."

Sam sighed and turned around briefly to offer Emory and Hazel a little shrug, as if to say, "Sorry, I tried."

It was clear from that moment who was in charge of this outfit. Sam might be bigger, but Dean had the final say. At least, as far as cursing went.

"It's okay," said Hazel calmly. "My daddy used to say fuck all the time."

Emory rolled her eyes but said nothing. She wasn't the kid's mom, and after the day they'd had, she wasn't about to start scolding her.

"See there?" said Dean, giving Hazel an appreciative smirk. "People think kids are these fragile little half-people. But they're not."

He left it at that.

The four of them piled into the Prius, which Dean seemed happy to let his brother drive. Emory and Hazel huddled together in the back.

"We drive it because of the gas mileage," offered Sam as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Dean's car is too much of a gas guzzler. This one we barely ever have to fill up. Plus it's a hell of a lot quieter."

Dean gave a snort of humorless laughter. "What, are you doing ad spots for Toyota now? Or is it Greenpeace?"

"Dude, I just figured you wouldn't want her to think you _liked_ driving this car."

"She'd have to be an idiot to think that."

"How far is it?" Emory interrupted.

"Just down the road."

It became obvious what sort of "facility" the brothers were leading them to only moments into the drive, as they made a right turn just before the Athens Police Department, the road clearly labeled "Jail Road."

"A jail? Y'all are all holed up in a jail?"

"Think about it," said Dean, the smug grin on his face seeming more like a reflex than an actual expression. "The perimeter is easily sealed off. The place is built like a fortress. It's designed to keep people in, sure, but it's just as good at keeping stuff out. Plus the backup generators. And the food supply. Medical facilities. Arsenal. It's all inclusive, baby."

"If you guys are so well stocked, what were you doing out in the woods?"

"Popping zombies, of course."

"What?"

"Sure. I mean, it's hunt or be hunted out here. I'd rather scour the area every day, taking out any Walkers I see, rather than wait for them to come to us. Besides, the fewer Walkers there are, the fewer people they can infect."

"Plus, if Dean doesn't have something to kill on a regular basis, he loses his mind," provided Sam.

"Shut up, Sammy."

The road that led to the jail was old and patchy, with squiggles of black tar marking the various cracks sealed over the years. The asphalt was uneven and crumbling at the edges, and it made the car rock and dip as it eased down the path to the prison.

The approach to the perimeter was eerie in the gathering dusk. There were no lights on, but many shadows. It seemed the perfect place for a zombie siege.

But the siege didn't come. Instead, the car approached the entrance to the high, heavily barb-wired gates and Dean jumped out to open them. He fiddled with something on the locking mechanism and just like that, the gates creaked apart. Sam drove the car forward and waited for Dean to relock the gates behind them.

"What about all the prisoners?" asked Emory as Dean climbed back into the car.

"Evacuated long before we ever got here," replied Sam, pulling up to the main entrance and putting the car in park. "We've only got ten others staying with us at the moment. A family of four, three college kids, a couple of teenage boys, and an English professor."

"A family of four," marveled Emory. "A whole family, intact?"

Dean sighed. "Nah. Used to be a family of six. Lost the mom and the youngest kid."

Emory bit her lip. "So you guys are just big heroes, then? You scoped out this sanctuary and now you're running the show, keeping everyone safe?"

Sam shrugged. "Actually, it wasn't our idea to use the prison. We're not even from around here. We were, uh, visiting Athens right when things started going bad. It was Jasper, one of the younger kids, who suggested the jail."

"Come on, you can meet them," said Dean, stepping out of the car. "They're probably eating dinner right now."

At the mention of dinner, Hazel's wide-eyed gaze began to dart eagerly from adult to adult. Emory gave her a little pat on the back. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll have enough dinner for you."

Hazel wrung her little hands. "Do you think they'll have chicken?"

"I think tonight is burger night," said Dean, somewhat absently.

"Explains why he's in such a hurry to get us inside," muttered Sam.

They approached the visitor's entrance, its tempered glass doors emblazened with the words _Athens-Clarke __County __Correctional __Institution_, accompanied by the images of the county outline and a sheriff's badge.

Inside was just as bleak as Emory had expected. Jails weren't designed to be warm and friendly in the first place, and the hasty evacuation had not improved it in the least. The entryway was typical government issue: sterile and beige and bare. Still, the brick and cinderblock walls offered a level of security that she might not have appreciated in the past.

However, the contents of the building were not so comforting. Furniture and debris were scattered about—not so much as to make it look like a bomb had gone off, but enough to suggest that fear and panic had ruled during the original evacuation. Emory wondered what had happened to all the criminals that were removed.

"We haven't had a chance to tidy this part up yet," said Sam, gesturing to a chaotic pile of waiting room chairs stacked against the far wall. "We don't really use this area, so there's been no reason to."

"I don't care, just take me to the burgers," said Hazel, who seemed energized by the promise of a real meal.

"Right this way, little lady," replied Dean, making a somewhat belated attempt at friendliness. He lead them towards the door marked _Processing_, and Emory couldn't help but feel that she was slipping into the belly of a beast.

Then again, if the belly of the beast had hamburgers, maybe that was exactly where she wanted to end up.

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><p>If you have a minute, please review! I know it's annoying to ask, but I'm dying to know what you guys think! Thanks!<p> 


	3. Devil Went Down to Georgia

The aroma of cooking food met them as they turned down the corridor that connected Processing to the main cell blocks. Dean led the way, his bow-legged stride lending a sort of swagger to his gait.

"We eat in the staff cafeteria. It's a little cushier than the inmates' mess hall," said Sam as he pushed open a swinging door to a room at the end of the hall. Inside were three rows of tables divided into two columns, each with benches attached. There was another door at the back of the room, presumably to the kitchen.

Emory had imagined the group of people would be sitting together to eat, having bonded long ago over surviving the zombie apocalypse together. Instead, they had spaced themselves amongst the tables, divided into the exact groups Sam had described: family of four, college kids, teenage boys, and college professor, all by himself at the far end of the room.

They did look up together, however, as the four newcomers entered the cafeteria. Emory searched their faces for some sign of welcome, or at least sympathy, but mostly what she saw was wariness and mistrust. But of course—she and Hazel were two more mouths to feed, two more to house and protect, two more voices in the clamor.

One of the teenage boys, a tall, good-looking black kid, was the first to speak. "So I see you guys landed us a pair of kick-ass soldiers."

Hazel reached up for Emory's hand, leaning into her. She was shy. Warmth spread through Emory at the realization that the little girl trusted her, and with so little reason. It felt nice to have an ally, even if she was only six.

"Stone cold killers," agreed Dean. "Get 'em some hamburgers, Wendell, will you?"

"You get 'em some hamburgers," grumbled the kid. "I ain't a waitress."

"I'll get them," said the oldest daughter in the family of four. She had the appearance of youth that had lost its bloom, wan and thin with dark circles. But there was a cold beauty in her wide blue eyes. Strange to think that four months ago, she was probably a pretty, popular middle school student. Now she was only a little more solid than a ghost.

"Thanks, Norah," said Sam. "We're gonna take the last perimeter check." With that, the brothers turned and left Emory and Hazel to fend for themselves.

Feeling strangely like the new kid in the school cafeteria, Emory led Hazel to two seats close to the door—and far from the others. Emory never had been good at making new friends. Norah returned shortly and set plates before them. It looked like prison food, but Emory hardly cared. She barely noticed the taste of the bun, which had clearly been frozen for too long. The warm food was delicious, and she made it disappear in moments.

While she waited for Hazel to finish, the group she had pegged as the college kids rose from their table and made their way over to the newcomers. There was one guy and two girls—girls Emory would have snidely called sorostitutes in the past. Now they just looked like fellow survivors. It looked like they had once been bottle blonds, but only the ends remained of their dye jobs—now both were brunettes.

"Hi," said the guy, the friendliness in his voice sounding a little forced. "I'm Paul Greer. Since nobody seems to want to step up, we figured we'd welcome you to our little correctional institution here."

"Kerry," offered the shorter of the two girls. She sat down with her friends across from Emory and Hazel.

"I'm Amanda," said the taller girl.

Emory gave the best smile she could muster and introduced herself and Hazel. The last thing she wanted to do at the moment was socialize, but she didn't have a lot of choice. She braced herself for idle conversation and hoped that the weak smile she had plastered on didn't look as fake as it felt.

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><p>From the east watchtower, Dean shone the spotlight on the ground below, methodically guiding it from left to right, searching for signs of movement. All was quiet for now. Sometimes he wondered if it was a wise use of the limited power supply, but he always slept better at night knowing that, last he'd checked, the place was zombie-free.<p>

Sleeping at night was a new thing for him, for which he could only thank the zombie apocalypse. Sure, there was nothing cushy about the jail cell he shared with Sam—the beds were hard and the cell block was drafty—but he slept like a baby in it. He had a purpose. A single purpose. Protect the group. Kill the Walkers. So far, there was nothing else to worry about. And that was _nice._

The outbreak had come as a bit of surprise, unlike the capital-A Apocalypse they had been through before. There was nothing supernatural about this one, except perhaps how insanely fast the disease had spread, and the curious durability of the reanimated corpses, which ought to have been eaten up by maggots and scavengers by now. But there weren't any angels or demons stepping forward to take credit, leaving Dean to chalk it all up to some kind of weird science.

He and Sam had originally arrived in the college town of Athens, Georgia after a rash of student disappearances, reappearances, then re-disappearances had started looking more and more like a ghoul infestation. After a while, however, it became apparent that the ghoul wasn't the only one in town feeding on human flesh.

After hearing a few accounts of survivors from other cities, it seemed that the zombie virus had moved through this town faster than others. As far as they could figure, it had started on the University of Georgia campus, in the Delta Tau Delta house during a party, presumably with one infected person who had brought the disease in from somewhere else. That individual had drunkenly exchanged bodily fluids with quite a few others, who had turned around and slutted around some more, so that the number of infected increased exponentially. By the end of the weekend, half of the student population was developing an appetite for long pig.

Funny, that it would be horny college kids that brought civilization to a screeching halt.

By the time anyone realized what was going on, the disease was out of control. The city pleaded for military aid, but local troops already had their hands full in Atlanta. Thus, Athens had been forced to go through a hasty, disorganized evacuation. He and Sam had seen little point in leaving, as the highways were packed full of panicky motorists and plenty of people needed them right where they were.

In the end, they hadn't been able to save many. It seemed that the more zombies they killed the more sprang up to replace them. Before long he (or had it been Sam?) figured out that it was the loud gunshots that drew the masses, and for a while they had switched to sniping the suckers from rooftops with silenced rifles.

That got boring after a while. And flipping hot in the middle of August, which tended to run just a few degrees cooler than Hell in Georgia.

Dean thanked God for rednecks, though. These people had more guns than the Russian mafia. They had more than tripled their existing arms cache, and that wasn't counting the stock of guns that had been left behind at the prison arsenal. They wouldn't run out of ammunition anytime soon, that was for sure.

Much of their situation didn't make a whole lot of sense to Dean. Where were all the zombies coming from? In his experience, when a group of Walkers caught you, they tore you to shreds and chewed you down to the marrow. But faced with one or two, it was pretty hard not to have the advantage, even if you weren't armed. You could outrun them easily, or just take up a nearby rock and bash the skull in. How were so many people being caught and bitten, yet still able to escape alive?

Besides, now that it was virtually common knowledge that a bite meant infection, and that destroying the brain was the only way to finish off the infected, the zombie population should have thinned significantly. But the things kept on coming. And coming. And coming. Before rescuing that woman and kid today, he and Sam had racked up a zombody count of seventeen. _Seventeen._ And that was one of their lowest takes of the week.

But tonight, thankfully, all was quiet. Maybe the rotting bastards had found someone else to dine on for the evening. The thought sent a wave of sickness through Dean.

He was jarred from his thoughts by a series of thumps behind him, followed by his brother's voice. "Anything?"

Dean turned to see Sam climbing into the watchtower from the open hatch in the floor.

"Nada," he replied, hoping he didn't look as startled as he felt. "All is calm, all is bright."

Sam snorted and collapsed into a chair, splaying his long legs out in front of him and resting his hands on top of his thighs. "Same on my side. Not a creature is stirring."

"Not even a mouse?"

Sam shook his head. He clearly had something else on his mind. "So. Our newcomers. What do you think?"

Dean shrugged, leaning against the built-in desk that lined the wall and folding his arms over his chest. "Girl is a little grubby now, but she might be kind of hot after a shower. Of course, my standards are a lot lower now that—"

"That's not what I meant, Dean."

Dean sighed and scratched the back of his neck, letting several beats pass before he spoke again. "I'm worried, Sammy. Of course I am. The hydro plant could go any day, and we'll be relying on the standby generators. The fences, the locks—all of it is mechanized. Plus, every time I turn on the water, I hold my breath...who knows how much longer the wells will last? Not to mention the food. We've had crappy burgers on stale buns three times this week. Nobody says anything, but it's obvious supplies are dwindling."

Sam shrugged. "There's plenty of food to be had out there. There are at least three grocery stores nearby—think of all the canned food alone! And we can bring water in, from the Oconee if we have to. Gates and locks can be reinforced. It'll be darker without electricity, but humans have been okay without it for all but the last hundred fifty years or so. As long as we're safe here, we'll stay."

Dean gave a rueful smile. "Who knows how long that will be? I mean, we always knew this place wouldn't last forever, but how can we leave? How can we drag twelve people, almost half of them minors, out _there_?" he gestured out the window with his hand. "They'll be slaughtered, but not before we go down trying to defend them."

"We've got to think day-to-day here, Dean. Agonizing over the future is only going to mess with your head."

Dean looked at his brother. "The future is all that matters, Sam. You want to know what's become clear to me over these last couple of days?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, inviting Dean to continue.

"Help's not coming. No soldiers, no FEMA, no foreign aid. In zombie flicks, they always have some goal, some place to get to, and then they'll be safe. Usually half of the characters end up getting themselves killed in the pursuit. Us, we have no end goal. We have no place to reach. Atlanta is fucked. We're fucked. Who knows how far this has reached?"

Dean looked at his brother, noticing the kid's eyes had gone glassy. "I keep hoping Bobby will show," Sam said with a sad grin. "Is that stupid?"

Dean wouldn't admit it, but he had often wished for the same thing. "Hell, of course it is. Bobby probably has his hands full doing the same thing we're doing—trying to save a few asses. Probably thinks we're dead. I can just hear him: 'those two idjits went and drove all the way down to Georgia to get turned into zombie chow.' But there's twelve hundred miles between us and Bobby right now. If we ever see him again, it will be after all this has blown over."

Sam sighed and ran both hands through his hair. "I hate when we're all on our own."

"Which is just about always," grumbled Dean.

"Those people look to us, Dean. They look to us to protect them."

"And so far we haven't let them down. On the bright side, if we ever do, they won't have long to be mad at us."

Sam made his brooding face for a moment before he spoke again. "So a girl and a kid. Why couldn't it have been a band of friendly Marines? A few rugby players? Hell, I'd even take an armed redneck and his hound dog. But the last thing we need is two more helpless females."

Dean rubbed a hand across his face. "Trust me, I'm with you there, buddy. But don't be so quick to judge. Appearances can be deceiving."

"Oh, what, you think the six-year-old has hidden powers? Maybe she can laser Walkers with her eyes. Maybe she can turn water into whiskey. Now _that_ would be a useful skill."

Dean gave a roguish grin."Well, if nothing else, girls will come in handy later when we have to repopulate the earth."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Ugh, Dean. You would."

* * *

><p>"So what's your sob story?" asked Paul, folding his hands and leaning forward on his elbows. "Nobody makes it this far without one."<p>

Emory was not in a sharing mood. "I'm alone. That should tell you all you need to know."

Paul gave a sympathetic smile. "Come on, don't be all sad and mysterious. Sharing your hell makes bonding with new people easier. Nothing like mutual misery to bring folks together."

Emory shrugged, feeling as if a heavy stone was jammed up against her sternum. "I...I don't think I can talk about it."

Paul nodded, as if he understood perfectly. "Fine. I'll go first. I was at a Delt party, where they say it all started. I was fortunate enough to get so hammered in the first hour that I passed out and didn't have a chance to get infected. The next morning when I woke up, everyone in the house was sick. By Sunday night, they were monsters. My best friends, my girlfriend—all Walkers within a matter of hours. I was so hungover that I didn't even know what was going on until news reached that Greek Park was a bloodbath. I don't know what happened to my parents, my little sister, who were in Atlanta at the time. My dad called right before the evacuation to tell me to stay put, that they were coming to pick me up. That was four months ago. I haven't heard a word since."

Emory swallowed. "That's horrible. I'm so sorry."

Amanda and Kerry looked on silently, seeming to have nothing to add. Paul watched Emory expectantly.

Emory sighed and flexed her jaw anxiously. "I lost my fiancé. I haven't heard anything about the rest of my family." Each word cut little pieces from her heart. It was the first time she'd said them aloud.

Paul, Kerry and Amanda muttered the obligatory condolences. Hazel chewed her hamburger noisily. Emory leaned her elbows on the table and pressed her face into her hands. She couldn't cry. She wouldn't.

But it was hard not to. This was the first time she'd been able to slow down long enough to think about him. The effort to survive obliterated all other thoughts, all other troubles, paring you down until you're nothing but basic instinct. Now, in this moment of safety, it all came flooding back. Everyone was gone. She was alone.

It was a bitter, heavy feeling. No amount of bonding over horror stories could cure it.

"Can you guys look after Hazel?" she asked quietly, rising to her feet. "I need a minute."

And she slipped out of the room as quick as she could.


	4. Watermelon Crawl

AN: So I know the story's kind of just plodding along right now, but I promise I'm gearing up to some serious plot and action soon! Okay, I don't know about plot, but I'm trying my darndest. To be honest, I'm not a 100% sure what this is yet...I'm gunning for a little action, a little horror, a little mystery, a little romance, but I'm afraid that at the moment I've got a whole lot of nothing going on. Working on that. Anyway, feedback appreciated, and I'm hoping to get myself organized ASAP! /long and obnoxious author's note

* * *

><p>Sam preceded his brother down the ladder from the watchtower, feeling a touch more anxious than usual after hearing Dean voice his concerns. It wasn't that he was foolish enough to think Dean didn't have concerns—but hearing them out loud made them real. When his stalwart older brother was worried about something, Sam couldn't help but be even more so.<p>

There was usually a lot of worry involved in the relationship between the brothers—at any given time, either Sam was worrying about Dean or Dean was worrying about Sam. Sometimes both at once. Since taking up residence in the prison, it had mostly been Sam's turn to worry. Staying in one place didn't agree with his big brother, nor did looking after a bunch of strangers that he had to be civil to day in and day out. And when something didn't agree with Dean, it usually didn't bode well for anyone.

The daily zombie hunts the boys embarked upon were just as instrumental in keeping Dean sane as they were in keeping folks safe. Each Walker they took down brought a sort of catharsis to Dean that he thrived on, that seemed to be essential to his mental stability. Before the hunts became routine, Dean had been downright bitchy.

Unlike his brother, Sam had enjoyed being around the same group of people for more than a week. He had become friendly with many in their group, especially the trio of college students and Dr. Ludlow, the professor, all of whom seemed almost like lost pieces of the life he might have had, the life he _did_ have, for a little while at least.

But it was hard to make friends with Dean around. Sam wouldn't go so far as to call it jealousy, but he knew Dean felt more secure when it was just the two of them. The more time Sam tried to spend around the others, the more surly and snappish Dean got. So Sam made sure to limit his social visits. He was determined to keep the peace between himself and Dean while they played head honchos to this ragtag little band of survivors.

Back in the forest, he could tell Dean had been reluctant to add to their brood, and had likely only done so because of the ragged, pitiful little girl and her desperate dark eyes. If not for the child, Sam wouldn't have been surprised if Dean had simply tossed a gun to the woman and wished her the best of luck.

No, that wasn't fair. Dean wasn't heartless. He cared about the well-being of those people just as much as Sam did. He just didn't want to get friendly with them.

And who could fault him? It wasn't like there had been many opportunities for Dean to form extra-familial relationships when they were kids. Socializing didn't come as easily to him as it did to Sam, unless, of course, he was trying to seduce someone.

Dean liked to be unattached. Dean liked solitude.

Well, Dean had gotten his fair share of solitude and detachment over the last eight some-odd years. Now it was Sam's turn to have a little of the opposite. Too bad it had taken a zombie apocalypse to get it, though.

"Somebody should get a couple of beds ready for our newbies," said Dean, interrupting Sam's inner monologue as they reentered the building.

Sam gave him a disdainful look and simply placed his right fist into his left palm without saying a word.

Dean mimicked the gesture, and both brothers silently pounded fist to palm three times. On the fourth hit, Sam maintained his fist, while Dean laid his right hand flat.

"Ha ha!" cried Dean. "Always with the scissors, is it?"

Sam shook his head. "Fine, I'll do it. You go make sure no one's getting eaten alive in there."

Dean smirked. "The zombies are out _there_, pal."

"Don't have to be a zombie to smell fresh meat."

That made Dean laugh out loud. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. If that had come out of anyone but you, I would have said it sounded naughty."

"I didn't mean—whatever. Just make sure nobody is stirring anything up? We know better than anyone how touchy group dynamics can get in these disaster scenarios."

Dean gave him a two-fingered salute. "You got it, buddy. I'll make sure the natives stay as un-restless as possible."

* * *

><p>Emory didn't look at men much these days. Even when she was lucky enough to find a live one, chasing man-tail was usually dead last on her list of priorities.<p>

So her reaction to the man walking towards her felt awfully unfamiliar. Especially now, with Mark so fresh on her mind. Still, she couldn't help but check this Dean guy out as he moved towards her. When she had met him first in the forest, she had assessed him as an enemy, then an ally, then a rescuer. Now, she assessed him as a man.

Both brothers were above average in the looks department. She was pretty sure that if Sam ever propositioned her, it wouldn't be long before panties were flying across the room. But something in Dean's eyes snagged on something inside of her, and she couldn't help but want him.

The realization made her blush, but there it was. How dreadfully inconvenient.

It was natural, she told herself. It had been months since she'd been with a man. Since she'd been with Mark. Of course she would respond to a guy as attractive as this one. Especially since existence was hell nowadays and sex was a normal way to try and comfort oneself. It didn't mean she couldn't look him full in the face. It didn't mean he had to know she wanted him.

"What's up?" he asked her as they met halfway down the hall.

"Needed some air," replied Emory, placidly meeting his eyes. "Where's your brother?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Getting beds ready for the new kids on the block. That okay with you?"

Emory nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. "That's nice of him."

"No," replied Dean. "I just finally gave up on scissors."

Emory gave him an inquisitive look, but he didn't seem to be in the mood to indulge her curiosity. "You shouldn't wander the halls by yourself. Easy to get lost in this place."

Emory considered replying with_ I'm not alone now, am I? _But it sounded so stupid inside her head that she abandoned the idea immediately. Instead, she said, "I didn't plan on going far. It's just hard to be around all those people after months of being alone."

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, releasing what sounded like a long-repressed sigh. "Guess I can sympathize with that. My brother and I—we're not used to being around anyone long-term but ourselves. I mean, we want to keep these folks safe, but…"

"Yeah. Getting all buddy-buddy is another thing entirely."

He shrugged. "They're okay one at a time. But all of them at once gets overwhelming. They expect things from us. Always want to know what the plan is. Don't know when they'll figure out that there is no damn plan, that we're just making it up as we go along."

Emory had to smile at his little rant. "But you guys are the ones with the guns. You've got this take-charge attitude. Of course they expect you to keep things together."

Dean snorted and was silent for a moment. "Hell, it's hard enough keeping myself together, let alone them," he muttered.

It was a bare flash of vulnerability, and even though Emory didn't know the man at all, she knew his type. Such a flash must be rare for him. She felt the sudden urge to press a finger into the soft cleft in his chin. To drag the touch along his jaw and trace the shell of his ear.

Oh, God. She was losing it. She wished she could slap herself across the face without looking like an idiot. "Well, anyways. I'm just going to take a little stroll, and—"

"Come on," Dean interrupted, looking away as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

"Oh. Okay."

The room he led her to wasn't far from the staff cafeteria, located at the beginning of cell block A. Though Emory had been expecting a standard cell, this room was large with high ceilings. It was equipped with several rows of bunks, a lot like the crappy hostels she'd stayed at when she'd attempted to backpack across Europe.

Sam came into the room moments after, carrying a stack of white sheets and coarse woolen blankets. The pile of folded linens looked strangely domestic in the arms of such a large man.

"Oh, hey. Brought some blankets."

"Thank you, Sam," said Emory, attempting a small smile. "You too, Dean. I—I really appreciate all this."

"Yep, no problem. I put you two over here," Sam paused to set the blankets on the beds he'd indicated. "I figured Hazel would need a bottom bunk, but there are plenty available if you want one too."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Speaking of which, you leave the kid back with the others?" asked Dean, who was closer than she'd realized.

Emory felt a little ashamed. She knew she shouldn't have left Hazel with strangers, even if she wasn't much more than a stranger herself. But she couldn't stay in that room with those people. The group of less than friendly strangers had been just as bad, if not worse, than being alone. "Yeah. I figured she'd be okay for a minute. It's just...I'm not exactly used to looking after a kid. I've only known her for a few hours longer than you."

Dean gave her a jarring thump on the shoulder, the chummy-but-still-tough sort of thump a man gives to another man to show approval or encouragement. It threw Emory off balance, and she stumbled back a bit. "It was nice of you to pick her up," he told her gruffly.

Emory gave a rueful smirk. "I guess. Nice of me not to leave a kid to get eaten alive. Good to know I'm not totally soulless."

Dean regarded her for a moment, his expression difficult to pin down. "'Course you're not."

* * *

><p>The following few days at the Athens-Clarke County Correctional Institution went smoothly enough. After the initial burst of hospitality from Paul Greer and his bitches (as Emory had come to know Kerry and Amanda, who seemed to follow Paul around and didn't say a whole lot), Emory seemed to become invisible. Tally and Emma Jean Salters, the two younger daughters in the family of four, had adopted Hazel the morning after she and Emory had arrived, being so close in age. Emory was happy for the child, and tried to deny the feelings of self-pity that crept up as she realized she would not fit in half so easily.<p>

When Sam and Dean announced at the end of the week that they needed volunteers for a grocery run, Emory was relieved for the chance to escape from the confining safety of the prison. Her boredom levels had reached max capacity, and if she had to spend one more day staring at the walls it wouldn't be long before she ended up with a gun in her mouth.

The brothers looked less than thrilled as they sized her up, but seeing as the only other parties showing an immediate interest were Jasper and Wendell, neither of whom were any older than fifteen, they accepted her offer without comment. Soon Dr. Ludlow had agreed to tag along as well, but only after their fearless leaders had promised that there was no danger, that they only needed extra hands to carry all the supplies.

Of course, promising no danger in a situation that took place during the zombie apocalypse was not so much tempting Fate as jabbing it in the ass, but Emory didn't say anything. She wouldn't mind a little danger, really. Especially with the Kray twins backing her up.

"We're going to hit the Piggly Wiggly down the road," explained Dean as the four of them made their way to the garage. Emory was surprised to find that there were many cars parked inside of the large space, not just the Prius and police vehicles as she'd expected.

"We took every functioning car until we got filled up," continued Dean, as if sensing her question. "Figured it can't hurt to stockpile 'em. Especially since you're gonna have a hard time finding parts if something goes bad."

As they walked, they came to a classic black muscle car, the type that should have boasted an antique vehicle plate. Though Dean did not otherwise acknowledge it, the brief, almost involuntary brush of his fingers over the car's hood betrayed it as the "Baby" he had talked about missing so dearly.

He and Sam took them to a pristine white Ford E-350 that looked like it hadn't seen a lot of action so far. Emory figured they used it strictly for supply runs, and something about having that big van all around her made her feel a whole lot safer.

This time, Dean climbed into the driver's seat while Sam moved towards the passenger's side without missing a beat. Emory was slowly beginning to notice how much communication passed between the brothers without either speaking a word.

"To be honest, we're not sure what we're going to find there," Sam said as he jumped back into the van after locking the prison gates behind them. "This is the first time we've had to leave for supplies. The place could be cleaned out, or it could be filled with the dead. Dean and I are going to make sure it's clear before anyone goes inside."

"Thanks for that," muttered Dr. Ludlow, who still had not warmed up to the idea of reentering the outside world. "And what if you two get ambushed in there?"

Dean shrugged. "We'll leave the keys."

No one else spoke for the remainder of the two-minute drive to Piggly Wiggly. It was hard to remember back to when this had been a congested road, with lines of traffic idling at the frequent stop lights. Now the roads were scattered with debris and various other bits of carnage, the occasional vehicle abandoned here and there. She hated this empty, desolate version of her beloved town. No matter how long she lived in this version, it never ceased to feel _wrong. _

As they curved left into the shopping center, Emory's eyes drifted over the Walgreens on the corner, which looked pretty ransacked. The glass doors had been shattered and shards were spread over the sidewalk, but it was hard to tell if it was the work of Walkers or human looters. Emory hoped the grocery store had fared better.

Dean eased deeper into the lot, stopping about ten parking spaces from the front and turning the van around so it would be ready to load—or drive away in a hurry.

"Wait here," came Dean's curt instructions. They took a moment to adjust their weapons, clicking and clacking and gearing up like they were preparing to blast out of the atmosphere. There was something mildly humorous about it all, and if the situation hadn't been so tense, Emory might've cracked a smile.

After a moment, apparently satisfied with their guns, the brothers sprang from the van in unison and began to hustle towards the building.

Emory sat beside Dr. Ludlow quietly, trying not to let his potent anxiety affect her. She clambered into the front seat and perched by the open driver's door, listening hard and keeping her eyes pinned to the front of the store.

After what seemed like an hour, but was really more like ten minutes, Sam appeared at one of the doors and beckoned to them.

"Guess that's the all-clear," she called back to the professor, who hadn't budged from his seat. "Let's go."

Though Emory had expected him to try and insist on staying put, Dr. Ludlow climbed out of the car and led the way into the store without complaint.

The Piggly Wiggly was in a predictable amount of disarray. It looked like it had been picked over by several groups of survivors, and smelled strongly of rot, presumably from decaying fresh products like meat and fruit. Whatever appetite Emory might have had fled swiftly after a lungful of that.

"God, it reeks," she complained, touching the back of her hand to her nose.

"Suck it up," replied Dean. "We've got shopping to do."

"Do we get a list?" asked Dr. Ludlow, holding his hand out.

"Beer. Things in boxes. Things in cans. And beer." Dean ticked the items off on his fingers as he listed them. "Questions?"

"Basically, just get whatever you can carry and whatever won't rot. Anything you think could be useful. We've got the van, so let's load it up." Sam seemed to have a habit of smoothing over his brother's somewhat courser way of explaining things.

"So it's Supermarket Sweep," said Emory, looking eagerly at the messy aisles. Even with stuff thrown everywhere, there was plenty to be had.

"You got it, sister," replied Dean. He shoved a cart towards her, then proceeded to equip Dr. Ludlow and Sam. "Go wild."

* * *

><p>Dean made a beeline for the beer section—it had been an absurdly long time since he'd cracked open a cold one. He was in an abnormally good mood. Something about looting a Piggly Wiggly had him giddy as a five-year-old at Christmas.<p>

It was funny...the grocery run was a popular scene in zombie films, and he was beginning to understand why. It was the free-for-all nature of it, cruising through the store and filling your cart with whatever the hell you wanted, without regards to health (hunting zombies provided plenty of opportunities to burn calories), cost, or crowds. Of course, you always ran the risk of running into something nasty, but generally, the grocery store was a safe haven. After all, zombies were interested in a very different kind of food.

He came around the corner of the beer aisle to find that what's-her-face had already beat him there. She was inspecting the once-refrigerated display of booze, most of which had already been cleared out. What remained was disorganized and haphazard, with many single bottles and cans littering the lower levels of the merchandisers. She looked up as he rounded the corner, giving him a small smile. She held up a six-pack of white-capped bottles. "I found something you might like. Last pack."

Dean's nose wrinkled up. "Egh, Stella? Don't they have anything a little more, I dunno, rough and rowdy?"

She rolled her eyes and gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "It's pretty picked over, but there's some local IPA back there. That burly enough for you?"

He walked closer to inspect at the bottles she'd indicated. They were branded with a turtle dressed as an executioner, the word _Terrapin _arching in block letters over the image while _Hopsecutioner India Pale Ale _was printed on a stylistic banner beneath. Dean gave a small nod."It'll do."

"Fine. I'm taking the Stella for me, though."

Dean made an indulgent gesture with his open palm. "Whatever you can carry."

She lifted both six packs and plunked them into her cart. Out of pure habit, Dean used the opportunity to check out her ass. Not bad. Not world class, maybe, but a solid eight. It reinforced his firmly held conviction that running from zombies did a body good.

He would have to talk her into some dark corner later. Nothing like a fresh piece of tail to raise his spirits even further, and he was pretty sure she was game for it. She was trying to be subtle, but if there was one thing that never escaped Dean, it was knowing when a woman wanted him. And this one did. She might even make it a little challenging for him, which could be fun.

"Cool," muttered Dean, then turned back to the refrigerated shelves and began to load every last available beer unit into his cart. He even took two cases of Natty Light, which might be handy in a pinch.

When he was finished, his cart was spent, filled to the top and groaning under the substantial weight of the alcohol. The girl was still standing there, watching him with wide eyes.

"I have to tell you how comforting it is to find that the man with all the guns is also a heavy drinker." Her tone was so dry that if he hadn't known better, he might have thought she was being sincere.

"Got to make up for lost time, sugar. And believe it or not, my aim is even better when I've got a few in me."

"Mmm hmm. Well, I suppose as long as you don't start firing at pink elephants, I'm happy. You just keep doing your thing, man." And she swung her cart around, veering off towards the next aisle without another word.

"Why, thank you, sweetheart, I think I will," Dean muttered happily to himself. He tore into a case of Budweiser, cracked open a can, and got to guzzling.

* * *

><p>The rest of the trip passed without incident. Despite the amount of looting the Piggly Wiggly had already endured, they had managed to collect a substantial quantity of nonperishable food, as well as everyday items like toothpaste and toilet paper. Emory had been sure to load up on feminine hygiene products, as she had checked her pack before leaving to find herself literally down to her last tampon. She was sure the other women in the group would be grateful for the refreshed supply, and it might even earn her a friend or two.<p>

She was helping Dr. Ludlow load the last box of supplies into the van when she saw it. Saw _them._ It was a cloud of Walkers, too many to count, moving towards them from the east side of the building.

In Emory's experience, if they were coming from one direction they were usually coming from the other as well. Sure enough, as she turned to look over her shoulder, a steady stream of the dead was flowing from the other side of the building. As if they had been waiting for this very moment.

"Shit. Crap. Holy shit crap," Emory whispered. She looked around wildly for Sam and Dean, only to find them with weapons already drawn, facing back to back and ready to fire.

"Get in the car and go," ordered Sam. "We'll be along."

Dr. Ludlow looked shocked. "To hell with that! All of us get in the car and go! You can't take all of them out by yourselves, and the gun blasts will attract ten times more."

"Bring 'em on," was all Dean had to say in reply.

Emory felt suddenly furious. "If you two get yourselves killed, all those people back at the jail are screwed. We _need_ you."

Dean shrugged. "Fine, don't get in the car." And he opened fire.


	5. Blood Red and Goin' Down

Dean's round departed with a choked roar, sailing invisibly through the air. The only evidence it had hit its mark was the Walker that crumpled to the ground seconds later. It took just a few seconds more for the body to disappear under the rotting feet of its pals.

"Jabbed Fate in the ass," muttered the girl. "Jabbed it right in the goddamn ass."

The wind blew the smell of death towards the little group, and Dean dragged in a deep, defiant breath. They had enough ammo to take out the whole swarm, but not nearly enough hands to disperse all of it. He gave Emory—what kind of name was that anyway? He kept wanting to call her Emily only to correct himself, so that in his head, she had become more of a Not-Emily to him than an actual Emory. He gave _Emory_ a dubious once-over. His mind swept over the various weapons they had brought along, and Dean couldn't think of a single one with a recoil that wouldn't knock her on her pretty little ass. If she wouldn't be smart and drive away, she'd just have to twiddle her thumbs—and hope nothing tried to bite them off.

Dean doubted that the professor would be much more useful than the girl, but he might be able to get a few good shots off.

"Ludlow, grab that big rifle in the back and get to work, long as you're planning to stick around," he shouted over the blasts of Sam's gunfire. "All hands on deck."

Even though he could only see her out of the corner of his eye, he could read enough of Emory's body language to tell she was displeased.

"All male hands on deck, you mean," she grumbled.

"Unless you have any hidden talents with an assault rifle, yeah."

"Give me a blade, then."

"We're not going to be getting that close."

She threw up her hands. "Those Walkers give a fuck how close _you _want to get. The only thing on their minds is getting close to you."

Sam, who had noticed the argument, made a last-ditch effort to be diplomatic. "Emory, we understand that you don't want to be useless, but we don't have time to argue. The best way you can help us right now is to get in the van, so we don't have to worry about covering you."

Dean's temper was only barely kept in check. There was nothing more infuriating than a life or death situation with a woman who thought she was spunky and plucky and got all cantankerous when the boys made her sit one out. He was inches from grabbing her and childlocking her into the van, just so he didn't have to hear her whine.

Sam seemed to sense this, and gave Emory his best pleading look. "Please."

She gave both brothers a look of pure frustration, but ultimately deflated. "Fine. But when things get out of hand, promise me you'll do the smart thing and retreat. For all our sakes."

Dean wasn't looking at them, but when Sam paused before replying, he could feel his younger brother's eyes on him.

"Sure, of course. We're not suicidal," was Sam's eventual reply.

Dean barely made out the sound of the van door sliding shut over Ludlow's rifle blasts. And then he thought of nothing else but taking out Walkers.

They were moving faster than Dean had expected them to, and even the pile of bodies the bullets were making didn't obstruct them for long. The dead things climbed blindly over their fallen comrades, nothing on their fucked up little minds but tearing into the four juicy snacks that had stumbled into the ambush.

Well, this juicy snack was not going down that easily.

The Walkers, who had begun as two separate groups, were now clotted into a single dense cluster in front of the store. There were probably no more than fifty of them, but it seemed like a hell of a lot more.

If he had time to rationalize the situation, he might have wondered how forty-something zombies had materialized so mysteriously at their exact location, especially considering how little noise they had made.

But he didn't have time to rationalize. He didn't have time to do anything but fire. Even though, in his heart of hearts, he knew perfectly well that they wouldn't be able to bring them all down in enough time.

Holy hell, what wouldn't he give for a few hand grenades.

At the thought, he thumped himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. He tore back to the van, pounding on the driver's side door and bellowing, "Open up!"

Not-Emily obeyed, peering languidly at him through the crack of the open door. "Can I help you?"

He ignored her tone. "Grenades. I think we brought some, dig around and see. And for God's sake, be _careful._"

She refrained from giving him any more attitude, though she probably wanted to. Instead, she climbed dutifully out of view. Dean cranked the lever on his rifle to load a fresh cartridge. They would have to pull back soon—the Walkers had nearly reached the line of the first parking spot.

For the smallest moment, he felt an odd nostalgia for the days when rock salt and silver bullets had been their ammunition of choice. Sure, those days came with their own steaming pile of crap, but at least...at least...at least something. In a lot of ways, this world was better. Dean felt more in control of his own destiny. There were no cosmic beings trying to interfere with him. No black goo conspiracy. Only one kind of monster to figure out.

Still, to be so cut off from everything. His thoughts strayed, as they did now and then, to Lisa and Ben. The memory of his almost-family usually cut into him ruthlessly, but even more so these days. No way they had survived this. No way in hell.

The anger and pain that accompanied that knowledge was difficult to push off, so he stroked the lever and ended a few more Walkers. It wasn't enough. It never would be.

"Dean!"

He turned to see Not-Emily—_Emory_—standing behind him with the box of grenades he'd requested.

"Hurry," he said, leaning his rifle against the van and filling his hands with a couple of the small bombs. "We can't use these when they get closer. Infected blood will go everywhere."

He looked over his shoulder, searching for his brother. "Sam!" he shouted over the gun blasts. "Grenades!"

Sam nodded and bumped the professor with the back of his hand to get the man's attention. All four of them equipped themselves, simultaneously yanking out pins and flinging the explosives high into the air.

"Inside the van!" cried Sam. "They're getting too close!"

This time, no one protested. The professor shot into the vehicle through the driver's side, while Sam ran around to the passenger's. Dean grabbed Emory, who was in front of him, and hustled her into the driver's side as well, supporting her with a hand under her arm as she scrambled into the back. Dean followed her in, closing the door just as the first explosion sounded.

It was enough to make the van rock sideways, and Dean was instantly glad they had decided to take cover—the entire driver's side of the vehicle was splattered with dark blood and bits of rotting flesh.

"Tasty," he mumbled.

"Looks like Hamburger Helper," Emory commented, her voice low and chilling. "Sauce, meat, pasta."

The van was hit by seven or eight more blasts before all was silent. Dean cranked the engine and doused the windshield with fluid, letting the wipers drag over the befouled glass a few times before putting the van in reverse and turning it in such a way that allowed him to survey the damage.

Most of the swarm was gone. The parking lot was now smeared with blood and body parts, with only six Walkers still on their feet.

"Yuck, some of them are still moving," groaned Dr. Ludlow.

It was true. The vast, oozing pile of gray, black, and deep red throbbed and squirmed, as those creatures whose brains weren't properly destroyed continued to struggle towards fresh meat.

Had Dean been anyone else, he might've been sick. The sight was beyond repulsive, and the only thing worse he could possibly imagine was the smell that went with it.

"I'll knock out the rest of them," offered Sam, though the idea didn't seem to make him very happy.

Never one to miss out on the action, Dean followed his brother out the passenger's side—he didn't want to think about the mess that would drip into the car if he opened his door—and proceeded to help him execute the survivors. If you could really call them that.

—

Emory sat silently in the backseat as they drove back to the prison, trying to shut out the brothers' voices as they casually discussed their next steps.

"Dunno how we're going to get all that crap off," said Sam. "They have that hose in the garage, but I'm afraid it will just spray the mess around."

"Nah, we can't drive this virus-on-wheels inside the perimeter. People will freak the fuck out," insisted Dean.

"Let's just take one of the trucks out and transfer everything through the clean side. Then we'll just abandon the van wherever."

It seemed that the brothers were well past the eruption of human body parts they had just witnessed, but Emory was not. Not by far. It wasn't that she hadn't seen her fair share of gore over the past few months—it was something she'd more or less gotten used to. But something about watching all those people get blasted to bits...it disturbed her, more deeply than anything she'd seen so far. Even if they weren't really people anymore.

Maybe it was simply the fact that those weapons were made to be used on perfectly healthy human beings, and their effect on the Walkers was probably not that different from their effect on a regular person. She had no idea how anyone could toss one of those into a pile of live humans and still sleep at night. It was utterly horrific.

Or maybe it was the way Sam and Dean had so casually flouted the normal rules of survival, deciding to take on a crowd of Walkers with seemingly little regard for what happened to her or the professor. It was odd, that she had begun to think of herself and the others in the group as civilians while the brothers were something else. Like cops. No—_soldiers_.

And that's what was bugging her. These Sam and Dean characters were not a couple of average Joes who had simply gone rogue in response to the zombie apocalypse. Killing came naturally to them. They were practiced at it. As if they had been living in a warzone long before this virus started going around.

It was a thought both reassuring and incredibly disturbing all at once.


End file.
